


all tied up

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Clothing, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, using newt's clothing to jerk off ?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25696114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Hermann really did mean to return the tie.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 3
Kudos: 94





	all tied up

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to newtgottlaid for writing a hermann jerking it fic of her OWN, and to ksci_janitor for indulging me in talking about the idea on twitter and discord :') enjoy the porn

Hermann finds the tie beneath several crumpled up pieces of notebook paper and an upended energy drink on Newton’s desk one evening while attempting some spring cleaning. The key word is, unfortunately, _attempting_ ; while Hermann is admittedly no paragon of cleanliness when it comes to his own side of the lab, the dark-ringed teacups and snapped chalk pieces were all cleared away quite easily nonetheless, leaving the rather daunting—if not wholly impossible—mess that is purely Newton in nature. There are empty trays from the mess hall. Unidentifiable splashes of kaiju gunk on the floor, the walls, the kitchenette. Apple cores, half-eaten candy bars, food crumbs that leave grease stains behind on highly classified documents.

And, of course, the tie.

Hermann imagines it was left behind one night after Newton—as he often does, when he works late—changed from his business- _high_ -casual into a sweatshirt to combat the chilly lab A/C. Or perhaps it was after his misadventure in the emergency shower when he spilled something on his trousers the other day—clothing flying everywhere, only half of it recovered. Perhaps it’s merely a spare.

Whatever its origin, it remains untouched by kaiju gunk or the sticky energy drink. Hermann tucks it into his pocket with the intention of giving it to Newton the next morning. Perhaps with a reprimand and a reminder that, if he must _insist_ on keeping clothing in the lab, to keep it folded neatly in his desk drawer as Hermann does with his spare sweaters. Not strewn about with rubbish, waiting to be swept unawares into the bin.

At least, that is what Hermann intends.

The first thing he does when he makes it back to his quarters is take a hot shower; after that, he swallows his nightly pain medication, changes into pajamas, lays down in bed, and—not quite understanding his own reasons for it—sets the tie on the pillow next to him.

He’s always hated Newton’s ties. They’re unbearably skinny—more like scraps of fabric than anything else, an afterthought to allude to a sense of professionalism he in no way possesses. Cheaply made, Hermann’s sure. Occasionally with some sort of pattern on them—once it was lizards, which Hermann’s sure Newton found _endlessly_ charming of himself, another time some sort of faux kaiju skin. This one is black, the sort he usually wears. Black and (Hermann gently brushes a thumb against it, trying to recall if he made an earlier assessment of its texture when he found it) silky.

Hermann pulls his hand away quickly. “Ridiculous,” he mutters to no one.

He picks up the tie and drapes it across his palm. Yes, unbearably skinny, unbearably cheap. Unbearably soft to the touch. Hermann can picture Newton standing in front of his mirror each morning with his collar popped, practiced fingers working over a knot. Hermann can picture Newton standing in front of that mirror again at the end of a long day, undoing that knot, undoing the buttons of his shirt. Hermann can picture Newton worrying its fabric between his fingers at his workbench, subconsciously, as he puzzles over a difficult specimen.

Hermann can picture shoving that tie into Newton’s big mouth as a gag to shut him up for once and watching him drool around it; binding Newton’s hands with it behind his back, or above his head; tugging Newton around with it, to his knees, to the lab couch, to the bed, guiding him as he uses his hands on Hermann, his mouth on Hermann. He can picture Newton tying _Hermann_ up with it… “Ridiculous,” Hermann says again, a little louder, and this time to himself.

It’s a bloody tie. It’s a scrap of fabric. Even if it’s silky, even if it’s featured prominently in the _occasional_ fantasy for Hermann before, even if—Hermann glances furtively around his room, as if he expects Newton to burst from a corner, wag a finger, and shout _aha!,_ and then shoves the tie against his nose and inhales—it smells like a jumble of Newton’s sweat and Newton’s aftershave. That makes it a disgusting scrap of fabric, in fact. How on Earth does someone that small sweat that much?

Hermann inhales again; his eyelids flicker shut of their own accord. Sweat, and aftershave, and perhaps even a bit of spilled coffee. Newton’s breath always smells of coffee. Hermann’s skin prickles. Something hot begins to coil upon itself in his stomach.

There’s a small, innocuous bottle of lotion that Hermann keeps at his bedside (for his, er, eczema), and after some consideration, Hermann applies some of it to his palm. Then he inches his hand down his pajama trousers.

He feels equal parts relief and embarrassment as he brushes himself through his undergarments: his prick springs to life at once, almost as if it’d been waiting for the order. When he ducks under his waistband and brushes skin against skin, his prick gives a pathetic little _twinge_. Awful, annoying Newton (Hermann thinks with a scowl)—what an utterly mortifying situation to find oneself in, and all his fault at that! (Hermann inhales the aftershave-sweat-coffee mixture of Newton’s tie once more and wraps his lotion-slick fingers around himself.) Leaving messes everywhere—food—his clothing—what else did he expect to come from it? “That wretched man,” he grumbles to himself.

Another inhale. Hermann tightens his grip, precome beginning to bead at his slit. He could almost imagine Newton is in front of him. No, not in front of him— _beneath_ him, neck tucked against Hermann’s, Hermann inhaling the scent of not a silky scrap of fabric, but of Newton’s inked, stubble-rough skin. Or perhaps above him. Above him, yes, on the bed, limbs tangled with Hermann’s, hips rolling down smoothly, tilting his head back to give Hermann all the better access to nip and kiss at him. “Wretched man,” Hermann says again, but this time, it comes out as a moan. Newton’s glasses fogging up and slipping down his freckled nose. Newton grinning at him coyly.

Newton slipping down Hermann’s body, his pupils dark and wide, obscuring almost all hint of his pretty hazel irises. (Hermann drags the tie down his neck, down over his chest, where it brushes a nipple through his pajama top and sends a pleasant chill shuddering down his spine.) Newton flicking open the buttons of Hermann’s top. (One, two, three, four…) Newton kissing Hermann’s pectorals, his abdomen, his scarred hip. (Relax, he’d tell Hermann, you’re too tense, relax a little. I’ll help you. You’re allowed to feel good.) “Please, Newton,” Hermann begs, too-loud, his cheeks flaring with heat as soon as the words tumble from his lips.

(Newton laughing above him. Dreadful, uncouth...)

His tie is wound easily around Hermann’s hand, and even more easily imagined as the warm, soft glide of Newton’s mouth on his prick as Hermann strokes himself with it. Up, and down. Tighter, then looser. Newton between Hermann’s spread thighs, his eyelashes fluttering demurely, his mouth stretched wide around Hermann, one hand holding Hermann down flush to the bed. Would Newton take his time? Or—eager as he is, and eager to take Hermann apart as he is—would he be quick about it? He’d tease, that much is certain; he’d set his own pace and make Hermann beg for it in any way he could. Not that Hermann would _ever_ lower himself to such _baseness_ , of course. The very thought is absurd.

Though perhaps—if he did beg—Newton might reward him for it, and—

Hermann's orgasm takes him by surprise. He stains his pajamas with it, and, rather unfortunately, the _tie_.

He watches it dangle limply between two fingertips. “Bugger,” he says.

He returns the freshly-laundered tie to Newton the following morning, much to the confusion of Newton, who’s evidently not seen it in several weeks and has long since given it up as a lost cause. “It was, er,” Hermann says, not quite able to meet his eyes, “mixed in with my washing. I found it last night.” Then, feeling bold, he adds “You really ought to keep better track of your possessions, Newton.”

“Sorry, dude,” Newton says. He crams it into his pocket, flashing Hermann a grin that sends pleasant goosebumps prickling down the back of Hermann’s neck. “Thanks for always cleaning up my messes.”

“Mm,” Hermann says.

**Author's Note:**

> find me in my usual spots, hermanngaylieb at twitter, hermanngayszler at 18+ twitter, and hermannsthumb at tumblr!
> 
> also consider applying to the nsfw/horny newmann zine i'm co-running, application deadline extended to aug 14! find the info post and app [here](https://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/622657216234864640/newthermann-fanzine-applications-18)


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